


The Worst of You is Still You

by WhiskeyRoseRiot



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Explicit Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Shot, post 4x12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 14:55:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1432621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiskeyRoseRiot/pseuds/WhiskeyRoseRiot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Gallaghers leave after dropping the bomb about Ian and Mickey is left to process and pick up the pieces.</p><p>Post 4x12, so spoilers for those who haven't seen the finale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Worst of You is Still You

**Author's Note:**

> Just my little take on what could have happened later that night! I hope you enjoy!

* * *

When the Gallaghers scatter and return to their respective corners, Mickey’s left staring at the cracked tile of the kitchen. Something rotten and heavy settles in his stomach. Mandy disappears somewhere, probably to her room. She’d looked close to crying. He can feel his wife’s beady fucking eyes crawling over his skin, pricking and prying in some sick, silent form of torture. He can’t decide if he wants to scream, puke, or shoot something. In the end, his eyes just glaze over, watery and tired, and he can’t do anything but stand there like some useless asshole while he drinks and smokes, drinks and smokes, over and over until his throat burns and his feet go numb.

            “It is looking like orange boy is not so perfect after all,” Svetlana says, her voice like an ice prick to his brain. “He is broken.”

Mickey’s lips twist up into a snarl and he glares at her, visceral fury pounding through his veins. She shares a look with her little blonde bitch across from her on the sofa, and Mickey _loses his shit_.

            “Fuck you!” he snaps, stubbing out his third (or fourth or fifth) cigarette of the chain. “You and your fucking muff-lovin’ whore can fuck right off! I don’t give a shit if he’s – if he’s depressed or high or low or _broken_ because he’s _mine_. He’s fucking mine and I take care of what’s mine.”

            “Then why do you not take care of baby?” she asks with a signature lift of a single eyebrow. One of these days, he’s gonna shave those bitches off her face.

            “You got any proof he’s mine?” he shoots back. She narrows her eyes and remains silent. “Yeah, I fucking thought so. So keep your fat fuckin’ mouth shut. You say anything else about him I will slit your god damn throat in your sleep, you hear me?”

She rolls her eyes like his threat is some kind of lame ass joke and he knows if he doesn’t leave the room, he’ll choke her to death. He has to bite the inside of his cheeks just to keep the last of his sanity and snatches another beer out of the fridge before striding back into his room. He’d rather be with a fucking manic depressed _whatever_ than be in the same room as that bitch.

Once he’s inside and the door’s closed behind him though, his chest tightens with the fierce weight of despair and he finds he can’t stand anymore. He slides to the floor with his back against the door, eyes never leaving the back of Ian’s head.

‘It’s not fair,’ he thinks to himself, like some whiny, pathetic piece of shit. ‘We were free. And now’s he trapped.’

 _Inside himself_.

Jesus fucking Christ, it hurts. It hurts worse than Ian leaving for the army, hurts worse than watching him dance on some sick prick’s lap in a bar, hurts worse than getting shot in the fucking ass. This hurts more than all that shit combined because he’s there, he’s right fucking there and Mickey can’t do a god damn thing to make it better. He can’t fix Ian with his hands or his words or his lips. He’s got nothin’ but worry in his gut and a drawer full of guns to his left.

Shit. He’s gonna have to move the guns somewhere.

Right now, though, his stomach is filled with lead, so he’ll have to take care of all that shit tomorrow. Instead, his head falls back against the door with a hollow thump and he stares wordlessly at Ian’s form beneath the blanket. He nurses the beer in his hand for god knows how long, and just sits there. All Ian ever does is breathe. He doesn’t sit up, or roll over, or adjust his head on the pillow. He doesn’t snore or speak or anything. It’s absolutely terrifying.

The sun falls away eventually and all that’s left is the light from the street pouring in through the window. Mickey can’t even feel his ass anymore. He briefly debates pulling on his coat and stumbling to the Alibi to drink until he can’t feel anything anymore, but even considering it is damn exhausting. No. It’s time to sleep. Or try to sleep.

Standing is a feat in itself, that’s for fuckin’ sure. He spares a longing glance to the empty half of the bed next to Ian.

He should probably just take the floor tonight, especially given the way Ian had snapped at him earlier.

But that’s some backwards ass shit if he’s ever heard it. He’s fought too fucking hard to get here, to be okay with having Ian in his bed without questions or whispers and he ain’t takin’ any passes or excuses, not even from himself. He won’t do it.

And so, with purpose, he sets aside his empty beer bottle and strips to his boxers. Actually crawling into bed and settling beneath the blanket takes more courage than he’ll ever admit to anyone, alive or dead, but when he’s finally settled, the ache in his chest eases a bit.

Hesitantly, he places a hand on Ian’s shoulder – which is promptly shrugged right the fuck off.

God damnit.

No. He’s not letting this happen, manic bullshit or not.

            “I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he whispers into Ian’s hair. “I don’t give a shit how high or low you get, Ian; I’m staying right fucking here.”

He receives a mutter in response, and Ian tugs his blanket up further over his shoulder.

Well. At least it’s not an outright ‘Fuck you.’ He’ll take it.

If he’s totally honest with himself, even just for this one minute, everyone in this shit hole of a town is broken in one way or another. Even after that horrific day when his dad busted in on them in the living room, after he’d kicked the shit out of Ian in some dried up, desolate patch of nowhere, and after being a fucking closet case, Ian had been there for him.

Now it’s Mickey’s turn.

            “Night, mumbles,” he says.

He keeps his hands to himself and rolls over, huffing quietly into his pillow. Being a couple inches away from Ian’s warmth is nothing compared to the chasm that would exist had he decided to sleep on the floor.

Less than ten minutes later, to his complete and utter surprise, he hears the rustle of cloth as Ian shifts behind him. A cool forehead presses to the space between Mickey’s shoulder blades and he can feel the soft, rhythmic sensation of breath against his skin.

And for tonight, it’s enough.

_End._


End file.
